


May Your Heart Purr Like a Bumblebee

by destinationtoast



Series: Bumblebeeverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Drama, Family, First Time, Harry ships it, Humor, M/M, Meddling, Podfic Available, Red Pants, Siblings, Translation Available, awkward attempts at seduction, definitely not a case fic, discussions of sexuality with impatient lesbians, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:36:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/pseuds/destinationtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry is the biggest John/Sherlock shipper: Harry Watson is back from rehab and temporarily staying with John and Sherlock.  She and John warily begin to rebuild their friendship, and then she makes some observations about her little brother and his flatmate which throw John entirely off balance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Dan Bern’s song, “Oh, Sister” -- because it’s about a great brother-sister relationship (though different from John and Harry’s), because it’s a lovely wish, and because bees.
> 
> Thanks to Lisa E. for betaing, for helping me sort out a major problem in the storyline, and for encouraging me to not give up on this one.
> 
> Alternate ways to consume this:  
> [Mandarin translation](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=88233&extra=&page=1%0A%20) by mayakira (use the ID "authors" and the password "123456789")  
> [Podfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/974872) by AxeMeAboutAxinomancy

Harry has been in the flat one week when she starts asking embarrassing questions.

John has started relaxing around his sister, just a bit. He’d been reluctant about offering to put her up on the sofa in the first place, and had made it clear that she should find her own flat as quickly as possible. (He’d expected Sherlock to protest, but Sherlock didn’t seem to care, as long as she stayed out of the way of his experiments and didn’t ask too many idiotic questions.) But he’d still felt obligated to host her, if only grudgingly, given what she'd just done.

The thing is, Harry has been so diffident, so quiet and non-blustery and agreeable and generally not-Harry (certainly not the Harry of recent years), that John is finding he can't stay aloof and irritated for all that long. 

“The program was good for you,” he observes, offering her some tea and sitting down on the other end of the sofa with his own cup. Sherlock has disappeared somewhere outside the flat, without his shirt or an explanation, and for almost the first time since she arrived, John is alone with his sister.

“Yeah, it was,” she nods. “It was hard as hell, though." She sips her tea and wrinkles her nose, then nods approvingly; he’s brewed it strong at her request, as she’s become quite a caffeine fiend lately.

"I'm sure."

"But it was important, I think. I think I really needed to just, just get away for a few months. You know? Focus on cleaning up my act."

“Well, you really did it this time. I’m proud of you.” He is also angry at her, still, for all of the manipulation, lying, and walking out on people who care about her. And for all the times he had to look after her. But this effort she's making, it seems genuine. She's trying to make amends, for the first time he can remember. It helps a lot.

“Thanks.” She sounds shy, uncertain, so unlike herself. Despite knowing that change is good, necessary, it breaks his heart just a little to hear her like that, so opposite of the Harry he's always known. “I haven’t... I mean, it’s not like I’m cured. I’m scared, every day, that I’ll fuck everything up again.”

John shrugs. “You might. Most addicts slip at some point.” She flinches a little at the word, but doesn't deny it -- definitely a change. “But if that happens, you just have to use the tools you have now to catch yourself and try again.” Harry nods. “And don’t forget that you have people around who care about you. Who want to help.”

“Do I?” Harry laughs bitterly, staring down at her cup. “I guess I have the people at the AA meetings -- they’re obligated to listen and pretend to care. But I'm pretty sure I chased everyone else off.” 

“Hey now,” he says with mock gruffness, “who’s sitting here drinking non-alcoholic beverages with you on a Saturday night, and putting you up on his sofa?”

Harry looks up, her eyes unexpectedly wet. “Thanks, John,” she says, softly. “You’re being much nicer than I deserve. Truly. You’re the best brother ever.”

“Too right.” 

“I’m really sorry, you know. For all those times you looked after me, and tried to help. Before you left. And, and when things were bad, with Clara, and you called me, all the way from Afghanistan. I can’t believe I said all that shit. I was such an arse. and I… well, I'm just sorry. For everything.”

He feels more of his resentment slipping away. “Thanks,” he says. “I appreciate that. And I’m glad you’re here.” He is surprised to find he means it. 

“I miss when we used to be friends,” she says shyly.

“We are friends,” he asserts automatically. Then he thinks back to the years before his deployment, before she started spiraling so far out of control -- to the laughter and easy camaraderie. “I miss it, too.”

They sip in silence for a few minutes. “So,” he asks finally, “heard anything from Angie?” He knows it might be a bad topic, but he's unable to avoid asking. He likes Angie -- not as much as he’d liked Clara, but Angie is sweet. (And, what with Harry not having a job or a flat or a life right now, it's not like there's so much else to ask about, anyway.)

Harry leans back into the corner of the sofa with a sigh that is almost a whimper. “No. She won’t answer her phone. Hasn’t since the night we fought." She closes her eyes, sucks thoughtfully for just a minute on the tips of her long, dark-blond hair -- always her nervous habit; John used it to beat her at poker when they were younger. "Given that I threw a lamp at her -- well, at the wall, but it came way too close -- I can’t say I blame her.”

John nods. He can't blame Angie, either, but he aches a bit for Harry. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. But at least it made me take rehab seriously. I scared myself, you know?”

John nods again. He doesn't know what else to say. He and Harry once had an easy, joking relationship, but it never really involved any serious conversations. He thinks he likes this Harry better, though, even if the changes mean that he's going to have to relearn how to spend time with her.

“What about you, then?” she asks.

“What about me?”

“Are you seeing anyone, Little Brother?” 

John ignores the “little” jab -- he is technically younger, but Harry mainly seems to like emphasizing the diminutive in order to tease him about his height. Not that she’s as tall as he is, but she’s never let that stop her. “No, I’m not, and thanks ever so much for reminding me.”

“Touchy!” Harry tsks.

John laughs ruefully. “Sorry. I was just dumped by another one... this time we only made it through two dates before she was fed up with me. Shame -- I rather liked her.”

“She was fed up with Sherlock, and the way you follow him around, you mean.”

John shrugs, tries to grin good-naturedly. “Yeah, I guess she said something of the sort, but a bit ruder. ‘That toothpick-shaped bastard who controls your life’, and so on.”

“Milder than she could have been.”

“True, I suppose.” John reflects on the various invectives that have been applied to Sherlock over the time they’ve known each other. He could assemble quite an impressive guide to insults based on that, if he wanted -- Sherlock brings out the creativity in others, though he also gives at least as well as he gets. 

“Well, it’s a shame that you’re not interested in him.”

“Mmm,” John says, pondering the idea of at least blogging about the insults that have been directed at Sherlock. To give their readers a sense of verisimilitude. Belatedly, he blinks and looks up at Harry from beneath a furrowed brow. “Hang on, what? Who?” 

Harry rolls her eyes. “Sherlock. Of course.” John stares. “You know, the toothpick-shaped one.”

“I’m not gay,” John says reflexively. A moment later, he is rubbing his arm where Harry has just punched him. He grimaces at her. Years of rugby -- and post-match brawls -- have left her with a firm punch and a fearlessness in applying it, especially to her brother. He's going to have a bruise. That's more like the Harry he knows -- already, he's missing quiet, reserved Harry.

“Yes, John, I know you like ladies. I remember how you looked at Clara. And Angie. And all of my girlfriends, going all the way back to high school.” John feels his cheeks and ears going red. He decides it's an excellent time to find his shoes fascinating. “I’m just saying, it’s a shame you’re not interested in Sherlock as well.”

He shakes his head in confusion. “Wh-why?”

Now she looks frustrated. (He's watching her from the corner of his eye, though still primarily regarding his shoes.) “Do I have to spell it out? The two of you clearly adore each other, and it doesn’t seem like your relationship with him leaves room for --”

His head jerks up. “We _what?_ ” 

“Come _on_ , John.” Harry is rolling her eyes so hard now that John is afraid she might strain something. “You come running any time he needs you, or any time he might possibly need you.”

“I don’t -- I mean -- well, it doesn’t mean I adore him.” 

“He insulted me ten different ways in the first two minutes after we met, and all you could say was ‘Brilliant.’”

“Well, it was! It only took him seconds to pinpoint when you started drinking, and how many people you’ve slept with,” (data John would rather not have, partly because it's his sister, and partly because Christ, how has his sister managed to pull more women than him despite having been married and off the market for a number of years -- and granted he was in the military some of those same years, but he didn’t get the nickname “three continents Watson” for nothing), “and how you lost your job, and--”

“Yes, thanks, I don’t need to be walked back through it all again,” Harry says dryly. “Thanks for standing up for your sister, by the way. See what I mean?”

John shakes his head stubbornly.

“Okay, fine, call it what you like. You just do whatever he says, and prioritize him above all other people.” John frowns. “And I get the sense that he cares about you more than anything else, as well.”

His brain is suddenly filled with the expression on Sherlock’s face at the pool, as he thanked John for trying to save him. And there's really no doubt. “Well, I wouldn’t say _adore_ ,” he grumbles.

Harry sighs, waves a hand at him with some annoyance. “Whatever. The point is, the two of you are practically joined at the hip, and you both enjoy dashing headlong into danger for the cases you’re always working on. What kind of room does that leave in your life for another relationship?”

John opens his mouth to protest, but closes it again after he realizes he can't come up with a satisfying answer. He laughs, a short burst of sound. “Yeah, I guess you’re right that it would be a lot more convenient if all those things people said about us were true.”

“You’re sure you don’t fancy him?”

“I’m not gay.”

Harry raises her fist threateningly again, and John holds up his hands in surrender. "Yes, we’ve been over that ground before. You like women. But you also are awfully into Sherlock. Don’t pretend you don’t know about the existence of bisexuality, John -- I know you remember Bisexual Lizzie.”

John blushes a deep scarlet. He hadn’t known that Harry was aware of that appellation for one of her early exes. John and his friends had called her Bisexual Lizzie, discussing her with a lustful awe and a great deal of speculation, ever since she had marched in the Pride parade wearing only a “Hot bi babe” shirt -- midriff baring -- and pink pants. John had always wondered whether he might have a shot with Bisexual Lizzie -- hoped he might, if he was being honest -- if Harry ever tired of her. He had found himself flirting with her more than once while she was dating his sister, hating himself for it, but unable to resist. 

John has no desire to discuss Bisexual Lizzie with Harry now, especially not if Harry knows about that nickname. “Can’t two men just be friends?”

“Sure they can, absolutely. I’m just saying that, seeing as how you follow him everywhere, and he shares all your dangerous interests, it would be nice if he also shagged you senseless whenever you wanted.” John feels the heat rising in his face yet again. “And that you like being ordered around by him a suspicious amount. And you’re fascinated by his lips.”

“Hold on, I _what_?” John cocks his head, squints.

“That’s all I’m saying.”

“No, wait, go back. Run that by me again?” 

“You like it when he bosses you about.” 

 “I do not! It’s one of his most irritating qualities.”

“And yet, you jump to do his every bidding.”

“Do not.”

“I think you get off on it.”

_“Do not.”_

“Okay.” Harry does not sound like she believes him even a bit.

“And what was that bit about... the lips?”

“You stare at his mouth.”

“When?”

“Whenever he’s going off on one of his lectures--”

“-- deductions --”

“--whatever, you stand close to him, and you glance at his lips a lot.”

“Probably because he’s talking!”

“You don’t stare at my lips that way when I’m talking,” Harry points out. “Or Mrs. Hudson’s.”

“I -- I don’t --” John sputters.

“So you’re not imagining kissing him, at those moments,” muses Harry. “I thought maybe you were.”

“No, I do not imagine snogging my flatmate when I’m staring at his lips!” John shouts indignantly.

“Hello,” Sherlock says brightly, flinging open the door and striding into the room, still bare above the waist. John wonders if his head resembles a beet as much as he imagines it does. A beet with tidy blond hair.

Fortunately, Sherlock seems preoccupied with other matters. “John, give me your phone,” he orders. John is off the sofa and halfway to Sherlock, hand already reaching into his pocket, when he realizes what he is doing. He resolutely refuses to glance at Harry. He feels her eyes on him, and he is sure she is laughing. Why he ever agreed to let her stay at their flat is beyond him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do I stand too close? I am standing close. Did I do that, or did he? Does he notice? His lips are right at eye level... maybe that’s why I stare. His fault for being so tall, really._

Of course, once she’s brought it up, he can’t forget it. Over the next few days, Sherlock solves three cases in rapid succession -- the first without even leaving the apartment. John is useless throughout. Worse than useless. 

“... as is obvious from the state of his glasses,” observes Sherlock, gesturing at a photo Lestrade sent to his phone when Sherlock rated the case "only a 5."

“Mmm,” John responds. _Am I staring at his lips? Well, I am now. But was I before? Is it just like trying not to think of an elephant -- I’m only doing it because I’m trying not to?_ Sherlock’s mouth has a very nice shape to it, he supposes. If one were into that sort of thing.

_Do I stand too close? I am standing close. Did I do that, or did he? Does he notice? His lips are right at eye level... maybe that’s why I stare. His fault for being so tall, really._

“... given the absence of crustaceans...” John nods absently.

 _I don’t stare because I want to kiss him. That’s absurd._ He imagines leaning forward and pressing his lips against Sherlock’s. His stomach tightens unexpectedly.

_What was that? I don’t want to -- I’m not -- I have to stop staring. Oh god, did I just lick my lips?_

“...now, John?”

He jerks alert. “Hmn? What? Oh, yes, right.”

“Good.” Sherlock grabs John’s coat off the door and shoves it onto John while John tries to figure out what he’s just agreed to. As Sherlock pushes him out the door -- his hand feels oddly hot against the small of John’s back -- John resists and turns back toward the apartment. 

“Sherlock, where am I going?”

Sherlock looks at him sharply. “To tell Lestrade to arrest the brother, and to pick up the dirt sample from the other case. Are you all right?”

“What? Yes, of course.” John feels slightly touched that Sherlock has asked -- it’s the kind of personal question he generally doesn’t bother with -- while also wishing desperately that Sherlock were not staring at him as a blush creeps upward from his collar. Has he been watching John watching him? 

“You normally say ‘fantastic,’ or brilliant’, or utter some other overenthusiastic compliment when I’m presenting my reasoning. But you didn’t comment once this time.” Ah, just Sherlock being self-centered again. John shakes his head. He needn’t have worried. People and emotions really aren’t Sherlock’s areas.

(He wonders if he should be insulted that his sister thinks he makes a perfect pair with someone for whom that’s the case.)

“Sorry, I’ll try to be a more devoted fanboy, shall I?” John drips sarcasm, covering up for his momentary uncertainty and embarrassment. 

Sherlock responds with an unexpected quirk of his lip. “And how exactly will you do that? Start dotting the i’s on your blog with hearts?” 

John giggles -- it’s so unexpected that it completely breaks him out of his nervous distraction. Sherlock joins in with a rich laugh. “Probably not the best idea,” John chuckles. “People might talk.”

Eventually, John heads out the door again, a smile still lingering on his face. Sherlock has turned away, dressing gown swirling, fingers pressed together beneath his chin. He’s contemplating the next case already, John knows. 

John resolves to tell Harry she’s being ridiculous and be done with the whole thing. After all, it isn’t like John has ever thought about kissing Sherlock before she brought it up. And he doesn’t want to kiss him now. 

_What about that little maneuver your stomach pulled when you were thinking about it?_ Imaginary Harry asks. 

That was nothing. Anyone would feel unsettled imagining kissing their best mate. 

_Ah, “unsettled”. Right._ She sounds amused. 

_Shut up, Harry._

* * *

 _Stop staring at his lips. Look somewhere else._ John looks out the window of the flat that they have just broken into, stares blankly at the street. He takes a small step backward from Sherlock for good measure. No need to stand so close.

Sherlock leans closer, more than making up the distance, and speaks directly into his ear. His voice lowers, rumbling against John’s tympanic membrane. This is not less distracting. _Concentrate, John. Concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate concentrate --_

“--?”

John can hear that he’s been asked a question, but has no idea what it was. “Right,” he says, hoping that’s appropriate.

Sherlock brightens. “You’ve spotted the killer, too? Excellent.”

“Um. What? No.”

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. He steps back slightly and starts to explain, and John tries to follow along.

* * *

Between flat-hunting, job-hunting, and AA, on the one hand, and cases on the other, Harry and John mostly miss each other for several days. But on Wednesday, Harry comes home to the apartment to find Sherlock and John standing close together, conferring over their latest puzzle. (Sherlock is conferring; John is still mostly trying not to stare.) She walks in as John says, “What shall we try next?” and without hesitating, she holds a fist up to her mouth and rudely mimes giving a blowjob from behind Sherlock’s back. She grins at John, then sprawls on the sofa with a magazine, clearly watching them from the corner of her eye.

That’s not fair. John hadn’t even been thinking about Sherlock’s mouth like that.

* * *

By week’s end, John has almost managed to triumph over The Lip Situation, as he’s come to think of it, despite Harry’s unhelpful suggestions. He is once again managing to not keep up with Sherlock’s reasoning at a proper pace. 

Friday afternoon, Sherlock is in the kitchen, perched on a chair and staring at a strand of fabric through the microscope while John manages to ask actual relevant questions. Things are feeling nearly normal again, as long as John studiously avoids staring at Sherlock’s face and stays several feet away from him.

“John, fetch me the victim’s wallet.”

“Where--”

“Inside jacket pocket, left breast.”

John steps forward and reaches for Sherlock’s chest, pausing and hovering uncertainly at the last moment.

“Hurry.” 

He reaches inside Sherlock’s suit. He feels the heat radiating off of Sherlock, through his thin shirt, feels his heartbeat as his hand brushes his chest. John’s stomach does a flip. He fumbles uncharacteristically with the pocket but eventually withdraws the wallet. 

_Anyone would feel odd about touching their flatmate’s chest._

_Yes, but most people wouldn’t do it,_ Harry observes. _Most people wouldn’t follow his every order._

Sherlock holds out his hand, seemingly deliberately far away from where John is holding the wallet. John refuses to move the extra few inches. _See? I don’t do everything he asks._

Sherlock blinks at his empty hand, frowns, turns and locks eyes with John. “John,” he growls. “Wallet. Now.”

John can’t break away from Sherlock’s gray-green gaze. He steps forward and places the wallet in Sherlock’s hand. In his head, he can suddenly vividly hear Sherlock growling a different command. _John. On your knees. Now._ He visualizes dropping to the floor, and Sherlock’s long fingers twining through his hair, as he... _Oh._ John’s stomach does an entire acrobatics routine and botches the dismount. 

Sherlock breaks eye contact and turns back toward the kitchen counter, flipping open the wallet and examining the bills inside.

“Right, I’m going out,” John says shakily.

“We need milk.”

”Ah.”

John nearly runs out of the flat, and keeps up a brisk pace once he is outside. _Bloody hell, what was that?_

 _I don’t know, John,_ says a smug Harry inside his head. _What was that?_

John adjusts his trousers and realizes he is in so much trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s look grows calculating. “So... Rough week, then?”
> 
> John closes his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.” _Especially not sober._

John walks.

John often does his best thinking while walking alone, nothing to distract him. He walks sometimes to work out how to write up a case for his blog. 

The thing is, he doesn’t want to think right now.

But he really doesn’t want to go back to the flat, either. He walks in the direction of the store, and tries to silence his brain.

 _I don’t. I can’t_. He’s sort of succeeding -- he hasn’t so much been having coherent thoughts, for the past several blocks. Mostly just panicking.

 _I didn’t. Did I?_ Did he really think that about Sherlock? Think ... that? 

_I didn’t mean to._ For all the good that does.

 _I like women. I really like women._ He remembers pressing his lips against soft mouths, running his fingers along the curves of breasts and hips, feeling bodies quiver beneath him as he slides his tongue between their legs. Yes, he likes women. He’s getting aroused again. It’s a relief -- a confirmation of his identity and sanity -- even if he is out in public.

 _So maybe it was just a fluke. Before._ He tries to keep thinking about women, but now he’s remembering before, and he’s imagining his lips on Sherlock. Twining his fingers through Sherlock's hair as they kiss --

_No._ No, he is not going to think about it. That’s a mistake.

His lips tracing Sherlock’s jaw, neck, chest, the line of hair running down his lower belly -- 

_No._ _I can make this go away. I’ll just do normal things. I’ll get milk. And I won’t think about it any more._

Sherlock on top of him, growling “John” commandingly in his ear, and pressing his erection against --

_No!_

He feels a flush creeping up his face and down his body. His cock is achingly hard.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Bugger._

He walks half a mile past the store before he notices where he is.

* * *

That night, Sherlock is out again, and John and Harry are having coffee.

“God, I could use a pint,” John sighs, then winces. “Sorry, not thinking.”

“No worries. I wish I had something with alcohol, too.” Harry grins. “Thanks for keeping me company with the coffee, though.”

John nods. “Of course. Happy to.”

Harry’s look grows calculating. “So... Rough week, then?”

John closes his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.” _Especially not sober._

Harry smirks -- John can hear it in her voice without even looking. “Why, did you think more about our conversation? Did you think about kissing Sherlock?” 

“Harry.” He tries to firmly indicate that he is not interested in pursuing this line of questioning.

“Oh my God!" She claps her hands together with excitement. "You thought about it, didn’t you?”

John doesn’t say anything, keeps his eyes firmly shut. Maybe if he ignores her, she’ll leave him alone. There’s a first time for everything.

“Did you like it?”

John still doesn’t answer.

“You did! You liked it. Otherwise you’d deny it.” She sounds positively gleeful. He opens his eyes to glare at her. John thinks it’s wrong for his sister to get so much joy out of the idea of him thinking about kissing someone. She’s always taken a delight in teasing him about his dates and crushes, though. (The first time was Em Richardson, back in second form.) Not that this is. A crush. No.

“No. Not exactly,” he says.

“You didn’t exactly like it? But you thought about it? Did you think about it a lot?”

John’s blush is enough of an answer, and goddammit, when did he stop having any semblance of control over his body? “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“Oh, come off it, John. You can talk to me about being attracted to a bloke. I’ve dealt with coming out more than a bit, and with denial.”

He frowns. “You think that’s what’s going on? I’m hung up just because he’s a bloke?”

Harry’s grin slips, and her brow furrows a little. “Aren’t you?”

“No.”

“So you’re not afraid of being attracted to a man?”

“No.” He pauses. “Maybe. A little.”

She nods, like she knew it all along. Then she tilts her head. “Why are you afraid?”

He sighs. “I don’t know. It’s not... something I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting? A wife and 2.5 kids?”

“Well, yeah. Something like that.”

Harry considers this. “And would your wife and kids be okay with you running off into dangerous situations all the time? Almost getting yourself killed?”

“I wouldn’t --“

“You do. All the time. Who’d go along with that?”

He sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Sherlock would.”

“But,” he protests weakly.

“But what, John? He’s a man? Get over it,” she says, with all the patience of a lesbian who came out nearly two decades ago. 

John sets his mug down, giving himself a moment to think. “Even if that were something I wanted,” he says carefully, “and I’m not saying it is. But. Even if it were. It wouldn’t... it wouldn’t do any good.”

“Why not?”

He looks down at his hands, because there are some words he physically cannot say when looking at his sister. “Harry, what makes you think Sherlock has any interest in... dating … me?” Correction: he can’t say _shagging_ to his sister at all. He has no idea how she does it.

She looks at him quizzically. “You mean he’s not gay?”

“What made you think he was?”

“Well, he hasn’t looked at me once, for one thing.”

“Oho, you’ve got quite the opinion of yourself, don’t you!” John laughs.

Harry wrinkles her nose at him. “Laugh if you want, but most blokes do look. All your friends have -- even the ones who knew I was gay.”

“Ugh,” says John. He doesn’t want to think about his mates checking out his sister. 

“Anyway, it’s not just me he hasn’t checked out. He didn’t look once at that cute server in the restaurant we went to -- the one who was almost popping out of her blouse.” John remembers her. He’d enjoyed the view but had tried not to flirt, since he didn’t want to be twitted by Harry about it. “I figured since he doesn’t like women, and he seems to enjoy keeping you on a tight leash, you’d be all set.”

“Oh, well, that’s just brilliant,” John says, throwing up his hands theatrically. “Great detective work, there.”

Harry sighs. “All right. Please enlighten me -- what have I missed?” 

“I don’t know if Sherlock is attracted to men, or to almost anyone. I used to think he was probably asexual, but he was interested in a woman, once.”

“Oh, really?” Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. “Fascinating. I never would have suspected!”

“Yeah, it was odd.” John rubs his forehead. “But I don’t think he slept with her. I don’t even know if they kissed.”

“Hm,” Harry sounds intrigued. And not at all like she’s giving up. “Okay, this is more complicated than I thought. I have to admit, I thought it was just a matter of getting you to want him, and then everything would work out.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Well, you’re both guys. Guys generally want to shag anything that’s fit and the right gender. Don’t roll your eyes at me -- it’s true.”

John snorts. “Bit of an oversimplification, I think. But even if it were true, Sherlock’s different. Sherlock doesn’t have sex, and he doesn’t do relationships--”

“Bullshit,” Harry interrupts.

“Sorry, what?”

“You two are so coupley. You already have a relationship. That’s why I was trying to get you to shag.”

John shakes his head. “I don’t know why everyone always thinks that.”

“That’s because you don’t see yourself with him.”

He sighs. “Be that as it may. Even if... even if I wanted that, I don’t think Sherlock is up for it.”

“But...” Harry frowns. “But everyone likes sex, don’t they?”

“Not everybody. And not Sherlock. He doesn’t eat, or sleep, or shag.”

“Yeah, I’m very aware of the not sleeping. There’s nothing like trying to kip on the sofa during violin performances. Or frighteningly smelly experiments in the kitchen.”

“Sorry.” John grimaces. “We can get you a blindfold and some earplugs.... and noseplugs, maybe.”

Harry waves this away. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” she says cheerfully. “I don’t mind much, honestly. But back to the topic at hand. What you said -- it isn’t entirely true, is it?”

“Hm?”

“Well, he does eat, and sleep, chiefly after a case, right?”

“Yes -- he stuffs himself with takeaway and then sleeps for 15 hours straight, often enough... Oh.” John’s eyes widen as he imagines Sherlock going on a similar binge in bed. With him. He shifts uncomfortably as he feels his cock stiffen, grateful that his jeans are confining him and making it difficult to develop too obvious a bulge. This is not a line of thought he wants to follow with his sister present. 

“So he’s not entirely inhuman,” Harry muses. “All you have to do is seduce him after he finishes a case.”

“Oh, is that all,” John says irritably. “Look, I think it would be easiest -- and best -- if I just don’t think about this anymore.”

Harry’s eyes hold a surprising amount of sympathy. “Yeah, good luck with that.” 

John is saved from replying by a text from Sherlock, summoning him to the scene of a crime involving artificial kneecaps and a great deal of blood. It's enough to divert his thoughts, at least briefly.

* * *

For over a week, John tries to not think about any of it. He tries not to look at Sherlock’s eyes or mouth. He tries not to let his breath hitch when Sherlock touches him -- which he does a startling amount, now that John notices it. He tries not to think about Sherlock shoving him back against the worktop, biting his neck. Or pushing him to his knees in an alleyway and unzipping his fly. John spends a lot of time furiously not thinking about any such scenarios. 

John is momentarily distracted from these thoughts whenever he is chasing someone, or being chased, or shooting at someone, or being shot at, or punching and wrestling with someone (except when that person is Sherlock). And granted, such activities do take up a significant portion of his time. But for the most part, John is a wreck.

Fortunately, Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. He is, perhaps, himself distracted by the kneecap case, which remains a puzzle even as they successfully solve other crimes. Sherlock also keeps himself -- and the kitchen -- occupied with some rather alarming experiments, while John occupies himself with trying not to stare at Sherlock.

In the service of one of his experiments, Sherlock eventually departs to acquire some fresh bits of corpses from Bart’s. John groans and collapses into his armchair. Harry is already making up the sofa for the night. 

“Harry, distract me, please,” John begs. “Tell me something good. Anything.”

“I visited Simon -- d’you remember him? My old coach?” -- John nods -- “and he had a lead on a job at the place where he works,” she offers. “And we had a good talk. I apologized for being a twat last time we spoke. It went well.”

“That’s great news! Good for you,” John says. “What job?”

“Thanks,” Harry smiles. “It’s just a temp job -- typing and filing and such -- and it won’t start for a couple weeks yet, but I think it would be a good place to start. I certainly can’t be a bartender again.” She shrugs wryly.

“That sounds terrific. Really! Congrats.”

“Cheers.” She eyes his dejected slouch. “So, ignoring Sherlock not going so well, then?”

John buries his face in his hands. “No, really not.”

“I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry I got you thinking about it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Well, I’ll just have to help you get past this.”

He looks up, hopeful. “Oh? Do you really think I can find a way to stop thinking about him like this?”

Harry laughs. “Silly brother. No, I’m going to help you figure out how to get into his pants. If that’s what you want, that is.”

John hesitates, then surrenders. “God help me, yes, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The artificial kneecaps are a shout-out to one of the funniest and most bizarre details in ACD's "The Red-Headed League" (the characters refer to a "manufactory of artificial knee-caps", which apparently in that context [referred to external caps to protect the knees of horses](m/2012/04/artificial-knee-caps.html)) -- originally, this chapter even referred to a kneecap factory, but I decided that was a bit too distractingly unlikely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But he’s the world’s best detective,” she argues for the umpteenth time. “Surely he’ll notice if you flirt.”

John and Sherlock have become Harry’s pet project. She is obsessed. Every time Sherlock goes out on his own, she holds a strategy session with John.

Unfortunately, Harry’s expertise in matters related to Sherlock does not match her enthusiasm. “But he’s the world’s best detective,” she argues for the umpteenth time. “Surely he’ll notice if you flirt.”

“Sherlock isn’t the best with emotions,” John insists again. Which is being rather generous, actually. “And anyway, I have no idea how to go about it.”

“It’s not that hard, John. Flirting with men can’t be that different from flirting with women.”

“It’s not flirting with men. It’s flirting with Sherlock. He’s not like anyone else.” 

Harry nods. “Yeah, all right, I’ll give you that. Well, what do you do with women? Let’s start there, anyway.”

“I ask them out, generally. But Sherlock and I already go out. He wouldn’t think anything of it if I asked him to dinner.”

“How else do you show interest?”

John sighs, thinks about it. “I, um, compliment them on what they’re wearing, I guess.” He has a line, also, where he asks them to tell him their secret ambition, but he’s not telling Harry that. It’s embarrassing, even if it seems to work well. “And I try to make them laugh.” 

“He does have a flair for dressing well,” Harry observes.

John rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to start complimenting his shirts.”

“If you did, it might help signal that you’re not entirely straight. After all your protests, Sherlock probably doesn’t think you like men.”

“Probably.” John sighs again. Sighing and blushing have featured a bit too prominently in his life for his taste, as of late. He’s not usually much for either -- though his sister has always been good at embarrassing him. “But how am I supposed to indicate, ‘Okay, maybe a little gay?’ Wear brightly colored pants above the waist of my trousers?”

“Yes! That’s brilliant!”

“That was sarcasm, Harry.” He's not really sure how Sherlock would react to that, anyway, given that Moriarty was the last person to use that signal. But at least it was a signal that Sherlock had picked up on. (And, seeing how little value he attaches to sentiment, maybe he wouldn’t have any negative associations.) Still -- a ludicrous thought. 

“Hmph. Well, you could go on a date with another guy. Just to show you’re open to it.”

“Not interested.”

“Come on," she wheedles. "You could do it. It wouldn’t be that awful.”

“I’m not worried about it being awful. I just don’t want to lead someone on that I have no interest in.”

She pauses. “Oh. That’s surprisingly good of you.”

“I’m a good bloke.”

“Yes you are, Little Brother.” She smiles at him fondly. “Well, don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.”

* * *

“That’s a nice shirt,” John blurts as they prepare to enter a crime scene that they have not technically been invited to.

“What?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“It’s, um, a nice shade. Of purple. Um. Suits you.” John feels the arrival of the inevitable blush as he stutters. 

Sherlock shakes his head, dismissing this irrelevancy. “Right. You wait here and keep an eye out. If you see Anderson coming, keep him away.”

John groans internally. _Right. That went well._ At least nothing distracts Sherlock from a case for long.

 _I thought you weren’t going to mention his shirts_ , comments Harry-in-his-head.

 _I couldn’t help it. It looked nice._ She snickers. _Stop laughing at me. It’s bad enough when you’re real. Why do you have to hang around my head, mocking me?_

_That’s what sisters are for._

* * *

John watches Sherlock’s mouth turn downward as they sit in the cab on the way home. The crime scene turned out to be a dud -- a boring, obvious murder, and no connection with the elusive Kneecap Killer, either. Sherlock is discontent, and John searches for something to say in order to distract him. “So, I understand you used to want to be a pirate?”

Sherlock does not dignify that with an answer.

* * *

Harry walks into 221B to find them doubled over with laughter, leaning into one another to keep from falling over. Apparently encouraged by their contact, she throws John a hopeful glance. He shakes his head slightly, still giggling. 

They both make each other laugh, more than anyone else can. He doesn’t even have to try on that front. Perhaps that should be enough. 

He laughs till his sides hurt and his eyes water, and enjoys the moment.

* * * 

It isn’t enough, anymore, though. But he feels helpless in the face of this fact.

“I can’t flirt with Sherlock,” admits John. “I’ve no idea how.”

“Maybe you need to be more straightforward,” Harry suggests. “Just tell him how you feel.” 

“I -- no.” That is not going to happen.

“Maybe you should just kiss him.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

John thinks about it, trying to find words to match his nebulous feelings of No. Talking about emotions really isn't his forte. (That's not why he doesn't want to explain how he feels to Sherlock, though -- well, okay, it’s some of it.) “I don’t want to, um. To do something I can’t take back, if he doesn't want to, to. If he's not interested. In me. Or men. Or whatever." Harry nods. "I mean, he’s my flatmate, and best mate, you know? He drives me mad, but he also keeps me sane. I couldn’t stand it if I made a mess of all that.” He has a little bit of trouble swallowing, just thinking about it.

“Mmm, yeah.” Once again, Harry looks at John with more understanding than he’d ever expect from his sister. Their relationship has never been about talking about things, or offering sympathy. He wonders if it will be, more, from here on out. He hopes so. Conversations with the new Harry are occasionally awkward and difficult, but also something he’s come to look forward to a surprising amount.

“So, it’s all matter of signaling more blatantly that you'd be up for it, then?” she muses.

“I suppose so,” he says. “Though I’ve no idea how.”

“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing I got you these.” Harry smirks, reaches into her purse, and tosses him a package of red pants.

* * *

The next day is Sunday, and John is surprised to find Harry already gone when he comes downstairs bright and early. Either rehab has changed her into more of a morning person, or Sherlock was creeping her out.

Sherlock is there, crouched on his chair with his hands together beneath his chin. He doesn’t notice or respond when John sets down tea beside him. John can imagine it seeming creepy, to someone who doesn’t know him well.

John grabs his laptop and goes back upstairs -- where he won’t get distracted by the way that Sherlock’s soft grey shirt is sitting askew on his body, yielding a glimpse of collarbone -- to see if he can salvage anything bloggable from the past few cases. He’s built up a bit of a backlog lately, possibly due to his recent inability to pay attention to the details. 

Several hours later, Sherlock has disappeared, and John is dumping cold tea in the sink, when Harry comes in.

“Oh, good,” says John, who’s been wanting to have a talk with her about what a terrible idea the red pants are. Then he realizes that Harry is staggering, and white as a sheet. The dropped mug shatters in the sink as he runs to her side.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He helps her to the sofa, sits her down. He looks for any signs of injury, takes her pulse, sniffs her breath. He doesn’t find anything obviously wrong. He finds a blanket and wraps it around her. His phone buzzes; he turns it off.

“I bought some vodka,” she says eventually, staring at the floor. 

John already knows there’s nothing on her breath but the smell of cigarettes that he won’t pester her to give up because now’s not the time. “Yeah?” he says.

Harry looks at him, clutching the blanket tightly around her shoulders. “I saw her.”

“Angie?” he guesses.

“Clara.” 

“Oh.”

“She was with... someone new.”

“Mm,” he says, not surprised. It’s been over a year and a half. Harry has dated several people in that time. Of course Clara has moved on, too. John is happy for her, though more than a little alarmed by Harry’s response.

“She seemed so happy.” Harry pauses, chewing on her split ends. “And it’s... it’s not that I don’t want that for her. It’s just that she has everything. A house. And a great job. And a, a girlfriend. And it’s just, what have I got, you know? A lead on a crap job, and a rehab certificate, and just, nothing.”

“Don’t forget your brother’s sofa,” he points out.

She laughs, just a bit. “Right.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No. I walked into the cafe, saw them sitting at a table, and walked back out before she noticed. And then I stared at her from behind a lamppost for fifteen minutes. And I may have followed them for a few blocks, after, until they got into a cab. You know, just wishing I could steal her life. Or her girlfriend’s life.”

John thinks that, on the whole, it’s good that Harry doesn’t have access to Mycroft’s surveillance capabilities. “But... you left her.” He can’t help but point this out. 

“Yeah, because she wouldn’t stop pestering me to stop drinking.” Harry laughs, bitterly. “Let me tell you, I had a lot of righteous indignation about that. Me? Have a problem?” She shakes her head.

John nods, understanding now why Harry would never say more than that she and Clara had fought. He’d thought it had been an affair, maybe. “So... you bought some vodka?”

Harry slumps, looks guiltier than she did when he caught her in his room, looking through the copy of Playboy that Aaron Morgan had given him (he was 12; she was 15). “Yeah. I walked straight into the nearest shop and bought a bottle.”

“And then?”

“I sat on a park bench for an hour, staring at the bottle and feeling sorry for myself. Then I threw it in the bin and came here.”

“That’s fantastic,” he says.

“What?” she looks a bit startled. 

“You had a close call, but you didn’t slip. That’s really impressive.”

“But I bought vodka.”

“Yeah, but you threw it away. Which I imagine was quite hard.”

“Almost impossible,” she admits.

“So good on you. I’m proud of you.”

She shakes her head. “John, I’m such a mess. My life hit bottom when Angie left and I lost my job -- but it just doesn’t feel like I’ve gotten very far since then.”

John nods. “I know. But you’ll get back to something good. You’re making progress already. Taking baby steps -- at the very least.”

“Yeah. Next time, I’ll buy a smaller bottle.” They both laugh.

“Right. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll come to your next AA meeting with you, if you want. And tonight, I’m going to make some tea, and then how about some sports films?”

Harry smiles. “Just like the old days, hm?” 

“You know, I downloaded _Bend it Like Beckham_ after you started staying here. Just in case you felt the need to watch it for the thousandth time.” 

Her grin grows wider. “I’m in.”

* * *

Several hours later, after _Beckham_ has finished, and Sherlock has returned in time to be offered a spot on the sofa next to John midway through _Invictus_ (but has refused on the grounds that he has to tend to an experiment of some unspecified sort in his room -- and also, John suspects, on the grounds that he has deleted all knowledge of sports), John and Harry are sharing a pizza in companionable post-sports film silence.

Because it’s not just a line, but something he genuinely is curious to find out about people that he likes, John says, “So, Harry. What have you always secretly wanted to do?” 

“Besides going down on Madonna?” John spits out the bite he has just taken and glares. “Ugh. Harry.”

“What? She’s still hot.” 

“Yeah. But. Images. Sister.” John waves a hand in a vaguely explainy fashion and shudders again.

Harry smirks. Then she looks out the window, appears to actually think about it. “Well, it hasn’t been always. And I haven’t told anyone, yet. But.” She pauses. “I was thinking I’d like to be a counselor. For teens.”

“What, really?” He’d spent years twitting her to go back to school after she dropped out of uni. He’d eventually given it up as a lost cause after she’d married a rich banker and still obstinately insisted she wanted nothing more than her full-time gig at the bar.

“I know, it’s bloody unlikely,” she sighs. “It takes two degrees, and I never even made it through one, and who knows if they’ll want an ex-drunk, and --”

“No, no,” John says, shaking his head emphatically. “I’m sure you can do it if you put your mind to it. You’re the most stubborn person I know.”

She grins. “Cheers.”

“And you’re fantastic with kids, though God knows you better not let the parents hear you talking to them.”

“Kids love me _because_ I swear, John. And because I’m honest about everything.”

John shakes his head. It’s true, probably. But there is a time and a place for honesty. And the time and place were definitely not Christmas dinner, at their grandparents’ house, explaining to their ten-year-old cousin how two women have sex. Still, Harry had only been nineteen, then. Her judgment has probably improved. “Anyway, I was just surprised because you’d never talked about anything like that.”

“Yeah, well. They had us do a lot of planning positive pathways” -- she uses air quotes, grimaces -- “in the program. And I guess it got me thinking. About how I’ve spent a lot of time feeling kind of resentful. About losing Dad so young. And about being beat up for being a teenage dyke.” John mostly remembers her doing the beating up. “And, you know, being an -- an addict, too.” Her fingers twist in her hair. “And I guess I finally started thinking that, maybe, maybe there was something better to do with all of that. You know? And maybe I’d like to help other people.”

“That’s terrific, Harry.”

She smiles. “It’ll take years, probably. Taking night classes.”

“Yeah, well. Let me know if you need anything, okay? I’ll help.”

“Thank you, Little Brother,” she says. “You usually do.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John feels exposed. He is, in fact, exposed -- or at least his pants are. They are poking cheekily up above his jeans, right where pants should not be. Good grief.

John feels exposed. He is, in fact, exposed -- or at least his pants are. They are poking cheekily up above his jeans, right where pants should not be. Good grief. John is glad he's (mostly) not gay; it seems far too embarrassing to look for a date, if this is the kind of thing involved. For the fifth time, John pushes the red waistband down to a more appropriate position. For the fifth time, he pulls it back up.

He can’t believe he let Harry talk him into this. He suspects that after yesterday’s movies and a good night’s sleep she’s feeling better, and that she is just milking the Clara angle for all it's worth. But she pleaded and made puppy dog eyes until he agreed to at least try them on.

What jumper goes with red pants? He doesn't have anything suitable, except maybe his Christmas jumper, which is not happening. Really, though, he needs something on the short side if the pants are to be at all visible.

“This is demented,” he mutters to the mirror. “I’m not going to match my outfit with my pants.” He pulls on a pale jumper which has shrunk slightly in the wash, then heads downstairs to the sitting room. Maybe he's being overly self-conscious, and nobody will notice. Except Sherlock.

Harry looks up and grins. “Oh, those do stand out!”

“Right, I’m changing,” John turns around.

The front door slams. “John, come at once!” Sherlock calls from the stairs. Everything else forgotten, John grabs his jacket and runs.

* * *

Several hours later, after examining two drowned bodies in a school bus, Sherlock leaves John standing outside with the instructions, “Wait. If you see anything unusual, shoot.” With that, he disappears. John stands there trying to figure out what kind of thing constitutes something unusual, and whether he is supposed to shoot that thing, or just shoot in the air to summon Sherlock. (He can rule out shooting to summon the police; they’re already on their way.) He suspects the latter, but wishes Sherlock’s communication were a bit more clear.

A black car with tinted windows rolls up. The back door opens. “Get in,” says Anthea, texting (not really Anthea, but it's the only name he has for her). 

John, irritated, debates whether this is something unusual. It's unfortunately not. "I'm on a case right now, actually."

"Don't worry -- someone will be keeping an eye out." She tilts her head toward the CCTV camera peering at them from a nearby building. John surrenders, gets in the car. 

He sits with a rigid back, tapping his fingers against his knees impatiently as they drive. Sherlock told him to wait. He should have waited.

“Should I give you my card? Make sure Mycroft hasn't forgotten my number?” he grouses. “That really would be the easiest way to get in touch.”

Anthea smiles and doesn't look up from her phone.

Eventually, they pull up outside an empty warehouse. John walks inside to find Mycroft leaning on his umbrella, looking pensively off into the distance. John clears his throat.

“Hello, John.” 

“Mycroft.”

“I did try calling, you know.”

“Oh?”

“You didn’t answer.” 

John remembers turning off his phone yesterday with talking to Harry. “Ah. Right.”

Sherlock's brother turns to face him and raises an eyebrow. “That's new.”

“What?”

“You have got a bad case of it, haven’t you?” Mycroft smiles, and instead of looking sinister, actually manages to look vaguely sympathetic.

“What are you talking about?” John asks nervously.

“Those rather fetching red pants, John.” Mycroft smirks.

John had forgotten entirely about the pants. He yanks his jumper down and practices his beet impression once again.

“Has my brother reacted?”

“No,” John mutters. “How do you know it’s for him, anyway?”

“John.” Mycroft shakes his head slightly.

John hunches his shoulders, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets. He pulls his jacket closed -- another layer to cover up the telltale pants. “No, he hasn’t reacted, and I expect he’s not going to. I think I’m barking up the wrong tree.”

Mycroft looks thoughtful. “I wonder.”

John glances up in surprise. “Why? Do you, um.” He swallows. “D'you have any evidence that Sherlock... likes... men?” John cannot fathom that he is having this conversation with Mycroft. But at this point he is desperate enough for information to continue.

“Perhaps. He has been involved with men before.” 

“Oh.” John says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. That is better news than he expected. Men, plural, even. “When?”

“First month of university. He saw three of them, in rapid succession.”

“Hm. Any girls?”

“Three also. Second month of university.” 

“Ah. Could have just been an experiment, then.” 

“Yes.”

John is surprised that Mycroft is sharing this information with him. Mycroft seems to catch his thought. “You’re good for him, John. You make him a better man, and a more stable one.” John shakes his head at the idea of Sherlock being less stable. “I have no idea if you can attract his attention in the way that you want. But I wish you luck.”

“Thanks.” Mycroft isn’t all that bad, really, John supposes. He clears his throat. “Is that why you brought me here? To talk about this?” He starts to blush again at the idea that the British government has been surveilling him and his pants.

“I fear not.” Mycroft’s expression turns somber. “Has Sherlock ever mentioned our cousin, Sherrinford?”

John can't help himself. “Christ, what is it with your family and names?” Mycroft does not deign to answer. “Er, no, I don't think so. He doesn't really talk about family.”

Mycroft nods. “Sherlock and Sherrinford were almost the same age.” John notes the _were_. “And they were close, as children. Close like brothers.” John thinks he detects a certain wistfulness in Mycroft's voice. Mycroft has always been more of a caretaker than a peer, John suspects.

“After leaving university, Sherlock spent some time exploring the seedier side of London, taking copious amounts of illegal substances. Sherrinford and I both spent some time trying to look after him -- though he did not want to be looked after.” John knows how that goes. He wonders, not for the first time, what it was like to know Sherlock then, in his lost days, and whether he would have liked him, been drawn to him, in the same way. 

Mycroft sighs. “Looking after addicts is not very rewarding, as I believe you know.” John nods. “Sherrinford gave up, eventually. He delivered an ultimatum which Sherlock refused to obey. So Sherrinford cut off contact. Even after Sherlock cleaned up for other reasons,” John wonders about those reasons, but now is not the time to ask, “they did not speak again -- not once in over a decade.” 

John notes, again, the finality of the language. “What happened?”

Mycroft is silent for a long moment. “Sherrinford died yesterday,” he says. “Automobile accident.”

John's heart breaks a bit for Sherlock. “I'm sorry for your loss,” he says quietly, automatically. It's what one says. 

Mycroft inclines his head. “Thank you, John. We were not particularly close. Eight years is a large age gap, and my work has not left room for some time now for me to maintain close ties. To anyone.” It's the closest John has ever heard Mycroft come to saying anything about his personal life. He sounds more resigned than regretful. 

“Sherlock, however, is going to need your help, John.” 

Quick nod. “Yes.”

“He's been avoiding me, and this isn't news I wish to pass on by text. Tell him for me, would you?” 

“I -- yes. If that's what you want.”

“He'll take it best from you, I think.” John doesn't know what to say to that, but it's probably true. “Also, there will be a memorial service in one week’s time.”

“I’ll let him know.”

“Thank you, John. And good luck. With everything.” 

And then John is back in the car, on his way to rejoin Sherlock, carrying with him news that he absolutely does not want to have to share.

* * *

“Did you know he talks to you when you're not here?” asks Lestrade. 

“Yeah, I'm aware,” John admits. Lestrade nods, unsurprised. 

They're standing outside the school bus. Sherlock has reappeared and, following the preliminary investigation, apparently shooed everyone who isn't a corpse out of the bus so that he can spend some time in his mind palace. How he got New Scotland Yard to agree to this plan, John will never know -- but John notes that Lestrade is keeping a close eye on him through the windows. It's cold, and John is wishing he'd brought his heavier jacket, or at least a jumper that fits properly.

Donovan walks past, says, “Your boyfriend wanted some quality time with dead people. You do realize he's a freak, right?” John ignores her, doesn't rise to the bait. He's still thinking about Sherrinford.

He's debating wandering off to find something warm to drink when Sherlock finally emerges from the bus. “John! I've solved it. Also not from our Kneecap Killer --” he frowns for a moment -- “but fascinating, nonetheless.” 

“Brilliant,” he responds, knowing the solution will be. He nods as Sherlock rattles off his deductions. Unlike Lestrade, who is taking notes, he's not really listening. He's watching Sherlock's lips, the pleased half-smile and the rapid-fire of his observations. He's wondering what shape that mouth will make when he tells him the news.

Eventually, Lestrade thanks them, and Sherlock heads off to hail a cab. “Let's walk,” John says instead. It's an absurdly long distance from their flat, but Sherlock says nothing, just follows John as he starts off down a mostly empty side road. 

It's nearly a half hour before John manages to say anything. He's been thinking about Harry, and what he'd do if he lost her, and especially what he'd have done if she'd died during that whole stupid year when they hadn't really been talking. He doesn't want to be thinking about any of it, can't help it. 

“Sherlock,” he says, finally. Doesn't look at him.

“John?” Sherlock seems uncertain, not his usual self at all. He has probably realized that John has been to see Mycroft. John isn’t sure what else he’s managed to infer from John’s current behavior.

“I have some bad news.” Sherlock says nothing. After a while of hoping in vain that Sherlock has already figured it all out and will spare John from having to do this, he continues. “It's about your cousin. Sherrinford.”

Sherlock says nothing.

“Sherlock… there's been an accident.” Christ, he’s a doctor. This should be easier. 

Sherlock says nothing.

“Sherrinford… Sherrinford died. Yesterday. In a car accident.”

Sherlock says nothing. John looks at him, finally, which he couldn't do while talking. Sherlock looks the same as always, for the most part. But he's not looking around, observing his city and the people in it (not that there are many people along the path they're tracing). Nor are his eyes darting in their characteristic _I'm deducing now_ fashion. They're just flat. Empty. Unblinking. Staring at the horizon.

John wishes he knew what to do, to say. Knows, from seeing a friend blown up right before his eyes, that there is never anything to be said.

John reaches out his hand and wraps it around Sherlock's.

Sherlock jerks his hand away like he's been burned.

“Sherlock --”

“Get away,” he snarls. He wraps his coat tightly around him, speeds up, and takes off on a perpendicular path, his long legs carrying him at a pace that John would have to trot to keep up with. John stands and watches him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter does take place on a [Monday](http://www.dailydot.com/entertainment/sherlock-martin-freeman-red-pants-monday/).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What part of _leave it alone_ don't you understand?"

“Leave it alone, Harry.” He has returned, but Sherlock has not. He’s pacing now, agitated, trying to decide where and when to start looking for him.

“But... he didn’t say anything about the pants?”

“No.” 

“Well, did he see them?”

John turns on his heel to face her, voice ominously low. “What did I say?”

“All I was asking was if he saw them. You don't have to be a prat about it.”

John starts yelling. “His cousin fucking died, okay, Harry? His cousin who was like his brother. He died, and I had to tell him, and what part of _leave it alone_ don't you understand?”

Harry yells back. “Well, I didn't know that, did I? Because you didn't tell me.”

“No, you didn't. You just assumed that you should keep wrecking my life. I tried to _hold his hand_ , Harry -- which is your fault -- and he pulled away from me like I was on fire. And ran off, God knows where. So you can fucking well sod off, okay?”

“Fine. I'm moving, anyway.”

“Great. Can't happen soon enough.” He turns, stalks out of the apartment, slams the door satisfyingly behind him (apologizes to Mrs. Hudson in his head). He walks downstairs and goes about two blocks, not even knowing where he’s headed, then turns back around, swearing. He can’t leave, in case Sherlock comes back. 

When he walks back in, Harry is holding his phone, which he didn't realize he'd forgotten. “You might want this, to track him down,” she says somberly.

He's vaguely aware that he should apologize, but he can't think about it right now. He still feels angry, helpless, and his brain is still buzzing _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_. “Right.”

“Do you think he’s likely to take something tonight?”

John hasn’t told her about that part of Sherlock’s past. “How’d you know?”

“John.” She just gives him a look. He imagines for a moment that there is an addicts’ secret handshake.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don't have a clue what he's doing right now, or how to find him.” His brain is so loud he can't think. 

“Is there anyone else who might know?” she asks.

“No. Yes.” He leans forward, kisses her on the forehead. (She looks startled, but not displeased.) “Thank you.” Then he turns on his phone and calls Mycroft.

* * * 

Sherlock is not doing any of the things John envisioned, as it turns out. He is sitting on a bench, staring out at the Thames. He is the only one. A cold spring rain has started, and the benches are wet. He is soaked. John sits down beside him. Sherlock does not acknowledge him. For a long time, they just sit and look at the river. 

“We used to watch the ships,” Sherlock says, finally.

“How old were you?”

“I don’t remember. Young enough to both have naval ambitions. He wanted to be an admiral.” He smiles the smallest, saddest, most lopsided smile.

John is pretty sure it’s the first time Sherlock has said anything about his childhood.

They sit and watch the ships and get very, very wet.

John thinks about how extraordinary Sherlock is, and how fragile. And how much of an idiot he would be to complicate things between them. He knows he’s done with his silly game of flirtation. And he knows that he will help Sherlock through this, however he can.

For now, he sits with him.

Eventually, thoroughly waterlogged, they head for home.

* * *

Harry is gone when they get home. John works on getting Sherlock to eat just a bit; he sits and watches while Sherlock stares off into the distance; he listens to him play violin; and, perhaps most worryingly, he manages to get him to go to bed. John, who has nothing to offer except his company, sits with him until he is asleep.

When John emerges from Sherlock's room, Harry is back, curled up in his armchair. “Brought back some Thai leftovers,” she says, nodding at the kitchen.

“Ta,” John says, falling into Sherlock’s chair. He is probably hungry, but is too exhausted to be able to tell, or to do anything about it.

“How is he?”

He shrugs. “Okay, for now. Not normal -- for Sherlock, I mean -- but I think he's as okay as he could be, probably. He didn’t take anything.”

She nods. “I'm glad. And glad you were able to find him.”

“Me too. Thanks for the suggestion of who to talk to.”

“Oh, well.” She shrugs. “It was mostly your idea. And it was the least I could do, after wrecking your life, and all.”

The full weight of everything he said earlier finally hits him. He shakes his head. “No. No, Harry. You didn't. I was just, I was so angry, and worried, and worried I'd made things worse. But it wasn't your fault. I just -- I can be -- sometimes I feel --”

“Like a stroppy teenager?” she says with a small smile.

He chuckles. “Well, yes. I suppose so.” 

“You have that effect on me, too, sometimes, you know.”

“I guess that's what family does.”

“Yeah.” She chews a strand of hair thoughtfully. “But I am sorry, John. I do think I made things harder for you. Messed up a good thing. Especially right now.”

He shakes his head. “No. You really didn't. You didn't make me do anything I wouldn't have probably done eventually, anyway. I take a little longer to realize things sometimes than you do, but I would have gotten there on my own. Stop taking the blame.”

She nods slowly. “Okay. I'll try.”

“Good.” 

She looks closely at him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he responds automatically. Then he snorts and shakes his head. “No, I'm really not. I'm worried about Sherlock. Not as worried, but still. And I -- I hurt for him. And feel so helpless. It's pretty much the worst.”

She nods. “I remember. When Clara lost her mum.” 

“Right. Yeah.” He sighs, rubs his head. He doesn’t want to talk about it any more right now. “So, you’re moving? You found a new place, then?”

“Yeah. It’s nice, and it’ll be free at the end of the week. But would you rather I stay? For a bit?” He stares at her questioningly. “I mean, if you think it would be helpful to have someone here, taking care of you. Making sure you both eat. And everything.”

He's touched. “Thank you, Harry. That means a lot to me. But no, I think we'll be all right on our own.” She nods. “You should expect to see me at your new place often, though,” he warns with a smile.

“You'd better,” she grins. “I've gotten used to our non-alcoholic drink nights.”

“Me, too.”

She gets up, walks over, leans down, and hugs him. They don't hug, historically. It's awkward and wonderful. He closes his eyes and clutches her, tightly, glad to have her there and in his life.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Um. Is this for the case?” John remembers to ask, finally.

“Was it asphyxiation, John?” Sherlock asks, kneeling between the body and the nearby brick wall. It’s the day after John gave him the news, and Sherlock looks worse for wear, despite having slept. John knows he probably doesn’t look his best himself, as he lay awake most of the night worrying about Sherlock. Now he’s tired, and it’s stupidly cold out, and he’s got his fingers on a dead body; he keeps thinking wistfully of his bed, where none of that would be true. 

Despite all of that, he’s glad they were summoned to a crime scene. It’s kept Sherlock busy.

John finishes his examination. “Yes.” He stands, strips off the latex gloves, and shoves his hands in his coat pockets. “You spotted her prosthetic leg, right?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock nods dismissively and stands.

Lestrade frowns, looks at her leg. “What, really? So --” but Sherlock cuts him off with an impatient gesture. 

Sherlock paces. “Ah. Ah, yes.” Then he stops, giving a little jump of excitement. “And that’s why the kneecaps! Of course!” he says triumphantly. Before John can ask whether and how he has just wrapped up multiple murders at once, Sherlock turns to him and says, “John, show me your wristwatch.”

John obediently takes his hand out of his pocket and holds out his left wrist. “And your other hand as well.” John holds out his right arm, too, wondering how this is relevant.

Sherlock grabs both of John’s wrists and shoves him back against the brick wall, barely a meter from the victim’s body. He pins John’s hands above his head, leans down, and kisses him.

John is suddenly much more alert, much less cold, and much more confused. He gasps against Sherlock’s mouth and wonders whether this is actually pertinent to the case at all. Then he forgets that train of thought entirely, forgets to think, feels only Sherlock’s mouth and body pressing up against his own.

It is a very different kiss from any before, rough and strange. Ferocity and insistence against his mouth; stubble against his cheeks. Teeth seize his lower lip and bite almost to the point of pain. It is an overwhelming mix of sensation. John groans into Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock leans back for a moment, eyeing him appreciatively, predatorily. John freezes as he recalls once more where he is and who is watching. His eyes dart past Sherlock to where Lestrade and Donovan are staring in amazement. 

“Um. Is this for the case?” John remembers to ask, finally.

Sherlock looks impatient. “No, John. The case is over. Try to keep up.”

“Right.” John starts trying to yank his wrists free. Not that he doesn’t want to do this -- oh, God, does he want to do this -- but he doesn’t particularly want to do this right here, with an audience.

Sherlock leans in against him and growls into his ear. “Stay.”

John stays. 

Sherlock runs one hand down John’s jaw, neck, the top of his collarbone. As he does, his eyes roam John’s face, taking in every minute response. John has never felt so observed. (He wishes he were not being observed by quite so many people, actually -- he does his best to block the others out, which is easier than one might expect, as Sherlock is rather good at occupying a great deal of his attention.) Being the subject of Sherlock’s gaze is a bit uncomfortable and wonderful, all at once.

Finally, Sherlock leans in once more, nips his ear near the upper edge -- _scapha_ , a long buried remnant of med school whispers unhelpfully -- until his breath goes ragged, then releases him.

John stumbles away from the wall, tugging his jacket down over the conspicuous bulge in his pants. He envies Sherlock his long coat. 

The Met are not even pretending not to be watching. One of the blood spatter experts is handing Donovan a 50 pound note. She looks stunned, despite apparently having made a sizeable bet on this. (Perhaps she wasn’t expecting them to snog at an actual crime scene, though knowing her opinions of Sherlock, John isn’t sure why she’d be surprised.) Anderson now stands beside her, mouth literally hanging open.

Lestrade clears his throat, finally. “Um, I still don’t understand --”

“Arrest the woman’s solicitor.” Sherlock says, still watching John hungrily.

“But why --”

Sherlock cuts him off. “I’ll explain tomorrow.”

John stares -- he’s never known him to miss an opportunity to show off his deductive skills. 

“But --” Lestrade tries again.

“We’re busy. Need to go home. Now,” Sherlock says firmly. “You’ll find ample contraband in his basement to justify the arrest.” 

Lestrade gives up. “Right.” 

“Come, John.” Dazed, John follows.

“Anderson, you look like a fish,” Sherlock tells him as they walk past. “It’s even less flattering than your usual look.” Anderson doesn’t even shut his mouth -- just keeps watching them with a blank fishy stare. Sherlock and John giggle. 

John realizes that crime scenes are going be be very awkward for quite some time. 

He really doesn’t care. 

  
* * * 

  
During the cab ride home, John’s brain has time to start working again. And it occurs to him that they should really talk. Because that was -- what was that? -- that was simultaneously everything he wanted and a bit worrisome. Because, just, why? What did it mean? Why now? Does Sherlock really want... did he mean it? 

John licks his lips, but doesn’t voice any of these thoughts. Instead, he lets Sherlock explain the case to him -- both the cases, connected through a mad trail of embezzlement, lust, and artificial body parts. Sherlock is perfectly happy to trace the path through the grisly clues to the solution, now that they are on their way to 221B. John murmurs, “Fantastic,” and the cabbie eyes them as if considering whether he will escape alive if he tries to toss them out, and everything is perfectly normal for a few minutes.

Then they are home, and as Sherlock pays the driver, he gives John a look so full of intent that John forgets how to breathe for a moment. And oh, yes, they really should talk about this. But instead, they are dashing up the stairs to their flat, shoving against each other and the door, a mess of mouths and arms and unfastening buttons and ow door handle and stumbling backwards into the apartment and --

“Hi, Harry,” John says, a bit breathless, his jacket hanging halfway off his body. He divides his energy between blushing and wishing he had a camera to capture the comical look of surprise on her face.

“Leave,” Sherlock tells her with an insincere smile. “We need the sofa. For sex.”

John tries to die of embarrassment, but fails. Harry gives him a delighted grin and two thumbs up. “All right, Little Brother!” John puts his face in his hands and hates everyone.

“Good thing I’m moving in a few days,” Harry calls out over her shoulder as she heads out the door. “But try not to get the sofa too gross in the meantime. I’ll be back later. Much later.” The door slams shut behind her.

Sherlock takes her place on the sofa, looks at John expectantly.

“Did you have to say that to my sister?” John asks.

“It seemed the most efficient way to ensure she left the flat.” 

“We do have bedrooms, you know. We could use one of them.”

“Yes, but I thought you would be distracted by her presence if she remained. And I want your undivided attention.”

John can’t decide if that’s sweet or selfish or both. But he’s admittedly much happier with his sister gone, even if the means were questionable. He lets Sherlock catch his hand and pull him to the sofa, onto his lap.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs into his neck, after accidentally kissing him for a couple minutes. Sherlock’s kisses are so intense that John has stopped doubting that he really means it. But still... “We ought to talk about this.” 

It’s going to be hard to concentrate, though, with Sherlock’s erection pressing into him. But there’s still so much he doesn’t know, and what he does know worries him. He means to ask questions, or to at least tell him, _I’ve done this before, you know, if this is because of the adrenaline surge of victory, still racing through you. Or if it’s to blot out death, well, I’ve done that, too._ First times in such circumstances can make for awkward next mornings, so they really should talk about it. He starts to stand up so he can clear his head and do the right thing.

“John,” says Sherlock, catching his arm, “stay.” There's a touch of pleading in his voice. He pulls John’s mouth back to his own. John stays.

  
* * * 

  
It’s hours later, and they’ve gone more rounds than John can remember managing since uni. They’re lying in a sticky, naked, confirmed bisexual pile on Sherlock’s bed, where they migrated at some point.

“That. Was amazing,” John mumbles, conscious that it’s not the most original of compliments.

“I’m not done with you,” Sherlock murmurs back.

John takes a moment to respond. "Christ. Haven’t you heard of a refractory period?”

“No.”

John sighs. “Well, give me at least a few. I'm not seventeen anymore, you know. Maybe a quick kip, first."

"Boring."

John rolls his eyes.

  
* * * 

  
Later.

Sleepily: “How did you know?”

“How did I know you wanted me to shove you against a wall and snog you?”

“Yeah.”

“It was rather obvious.” Sherlock starts nuzzling his neck lazily.

“Yeah, I guess. Wait, when did you know?”

Sherlock speaks intermittently, between kisses along his jaw. “Three weeks ago I suspected a change, when you lost your ability to track the content of my speech.” 

John wakes up a bit more at that. “...Three _weeks_ ago?” 

“That was when I started forming and testing hypotheses.”

“Testing?”

Sherlock has his teeth on John’s ear again. “Primarily by speaking and touching you in various fashions and observing your response.” He bites and John gasps.

“Christ, why didn’t you stop me sooner?” John asks, squirming. He could have saved substantial embarrassment. Sherlock doesn’t answer, except with his teeth. “Why today?” John persists.

“Shush,” Sherlock growls. 

“It was because you solved the case,” John says through clenched teeth. “Wasn’t it?” No answer. “This is the first time we’ve had no unsolved cases? In weeks?”

“Correct,” Sherlock confirms, finally. “Now quiet. I want to put your mouth to other uses.”

“Oh, God, Sherlock. Again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reapersun has some lovely artwork on a [related theme](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/11311712866/time-to-go-to-bed-the-jewellers-hands-could-you) (a kiss against a wall), which I didn’t see until after I’d written this.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John opens his eyes blearily, glances at the light coming through the window. It must be nearly noon. He is alone in Sherlock’s bed.

John opens his eyes blearily, glances at the light coming through the window. It must be nearly noon. He is alone in Sherlock’s bed. 

He yawns, puts on Sherlock’s spare dressing gown, rolls up the sleeves (sees that he has received eight text messages, all from Harry, and ignores them after noting that the first one contains only excited punctuation), wanders out into the sitting room. Sherlock is standing at the window, tuning his violin. Harry is not here; he surmises that she opted to stay somewhere else last night after all. (He hopes that means she was having fun, but is mostly just relieved she wasn't in the flat.)

“Morning, ish,” John says with a smile. Sherlock doesn't respond, except for a scowl.

John gives him the time that it takes for him to make tea (two cups) and toast (jam on one slice, honey on the other), and to listen to Sherlock warm up with a few scales and a short piece that he doesn’t recognize. Then he breaks in. “So,” he says, placing their breakfasts on the coffee table and taking a seat on the sofa, “want to tell me what's wrong?”

Sherlock grimaces. “Not particularly.”

“Well, you should, anyway.”

Sherlock plucks the violin strings discordantly. “John.” He does not make eye contact, looks out the window. “I have no desire to hurt you.”

John feels his stomach tighten. “But?”

He puts down the violin, still doesn’t look at John. “I wasn't lying.” John wonders when, specifically. He waits. “I am sorry if I misled you last night. It was... a weakness. But I consider myself married to my work. I don't have relationships.” 

John takes a moment to think about this. “It was a weakness? So you weren’t planning all along to sleep with me as soon as the case was over?”

“No. It was a regrettable error. I have been ... letting my emotions cloud my thinking recently.” Sherlock continues to look out the window.

“Since Sherrinford?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but he winces the slightest bit at the name.

John gets it. “You were just seeking a distraction, then.” Sherlock gives a small nod. 

John clenches his fists. “No.”

Sherlock looks at him finally, startled. “What?”

“No, I’m not going to let you do this. You weren’t making a mistake then -- you’re making one now.”

Sherlock frowns. “John, I am not interested in --”

John nods. "No, I know. You don’t want a relationship."

Sherlock nods again.

“I don’t, either.”

Sherlock looks a bit surprised, but says briskly, “Good, that’s sorted, then --”

“No.” John says again. “No. Sherlock, listen to me.” Sherlock watches him silently. John struggles to find the words. "Sherlock, what I want from you… it isn't a normal relationship. I don’t...” He draws a breath, pausing uncertainly for a moment. “I don't want dates -- well, unless you mean crime scenes -- and I don't want anniversaries and all the rest. I won't ask you to share a bed every night. I don't want you to change. What I want is, well -- actually, what we've had all along is perfect, just about.” 

Sherlock looks surprised, but still guarded. “Just about?”

“Well, if we can keep shagging in between cases, that would be rather brilliant, I think,” John says with a small smile.

“I see.” Sherlock considers. Then his lip quirks up, just a bit. “Yes. Well. I think perhaps that can be managed.” He comes over slowly and sits down on the other end of the sofa.

“Good.” John relaxes substantially, lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I’d like that. A lot.” Then he braces himself again. He wants to be done with this conversation, but he knows there’s something else he can’t ignore. “There’s one more thing, though.” 

Sherlock tenses as well. “What?”

“Sherlock... why did you tell me to get away? After I told you the news?”

Sherlock is quiet for a long time, shoulders hunching, curling in on himself. Just when John thinks he isn’t going to answer, he says, “I didn’t want you to see me.”

“Why?”

“I... wasn’t at my best.”

“You’re not, always, when you’re around me.”

“I was at my worst. And I was afraid of hurting you.”

“Hurting me how?”

“You’ve no idea what I was feeling. I wanted to say things, to say vile things to anyone near me. I wanted to hurt something, to destroy something. I was afraid it would be you.”

“I do, actually,” John says quietly. “Know something about what that feels like. A bit.” He sighs. “I’ve lost people, too.” Sherlock looks at him, doesn’t say anything. “I appreciate you thinking of me, and normally -- yeah, good. But... well, I would have understood. And at least then I wouldn’t have been so worried about you. Because I was, you know. Worried sick.

“I need you,” he licks his lips, “I need you, Sherlock, to not push me away like that. Please. I want to be with you. Even when you’re at your worst.”

Sherlock stares at him for a long time. Finally, he nods. “You continually surprise me, John.” He says, quietly.

John smiles. “It’s mutual.” He pauses. “Would you like me to go with you to the memorial?”

Sherlock’s mouth twists, a complicated shape of anguish and disdain. “I won’t be attending. The dead do not desire an audience.”

“I know. But… sometimes the living get something out of it.” Sherlock shakes his head. “Okay. is there anything I can do?”

“You're doing it already.” Sherlock hesitantly scoots closer, and John enfolds him in his arms. 

“Do you want to tell me more about him?” John asks, quietly, lips pressing into Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock is silent for a moment. “Not now. But yes.”

“All right.” So John just holds him. And thinks, for the first time in a while, that maybe things are going to be all right eventually.

  
* * *

  
“It's a nice place,” he says, looking around the new flat. “Or it will be, once you've finished moving in.” Despite the fact that Harry has been there over half a month, the secondhand sofa they occupy is the lone piece of furniture in the cozy sitting room. John is using one of the many piles of boxes to rest his mug, and another serves as a coat rack.

Harry nods. “Yeah, I'm going to get through most of the boxes this weekend. The new job’s been leaving me completely knackered so far, but I really need to get it done. My new flatmate moves in next week.”

“Tina, did you say?”

“Yeah. I found her online.” John supposes that probably isn't sketchy anymore. It still weirds him out, a bit. Then again, he agreed to see a flat with someone whose name he had just learned. “She's sober, too. And a nurse.”

John grins. Harry has a weakness for nurses -- has dated several in the past (something he and Harry have in common). “She cute, then?”

Harry glares. “Unlike you, I don't intend to shag my flatmate.” 

“I must say, I recommend it.”

Harry returns his smile. “Things going okay, then?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so. It’s going to be a long time before he’s okay -- really okay. Before we settle into something that feels like normal. But I think it’s going to be all right.”

“I notice that you're actually here, in my apartment, without him -- so you must be a bit less worried than you were.”

“Yeah, I am. He's still sad. But he's a bit better, most of the time. And he's been resuming more of his normal habits over the past couple weeks. Not sleeping much, and all that.” Though he has come and curled up with John in his bed a surprising number of times, for part of the night, even when they're working on a case. John hopes that he doesn't stop doing that. (And the not-sleeping that they've done together a couple more times when they aren't working on cases, well, that has continued to be good, very good, if exhausting -- but he definitely doesn't need to tell Harry about that.) “Tonight he actually chased me out so he could do his experiments in peace. Said I was thinking too loudly.” He smiles fondly. “He's actually doing experiments again, which is good. Well, not good for the apartment. But I think it's good.” 

“I'm really glad he's doing a bit better. And I'm so happy for you, that it's working out.” Harry reaches over and squeezes his hand. Then she grins. “So, basically, I was right about everything, after all.” 

John rolls his eyes. “Yes, that's the important thing -- you were right.”

“That's always the important thing, Little Brother.”

John is considering throwing a pillow at her when his phone buzzes.

_Come at once. - SH_

John doesn’t know if it’s a case, or personal. But it doesn’t really matter. “I'm sorry, Harry --”

“No, it's fine. I know you'll go running whenever he calls,” she says, smiling. 

He wants to argue, but he mostly can't. He nods instead. “Not if you really need me, though,” he amends. 

She smiles wider. “Don't think I don't know it, and appreciate it. But tonight, I don't think I need you as much as your boyfriend does.” John still blushes at the term, and then blushes more at the fact that Harry clearly finds his blushing hilarious. “‘Sides, I rented a movie, just in case. So, what are you doing Tuesday night?”

John smiles. “Catching up with my sister.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then. Don't get into too much trouble in the meantime,” she says teasingly. 

John grabs his coat, hugs his sister goodbye, and makes no promises. You never can tell, when you're with Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first fanfic story I started writing (though not the first I finished), and it is a bit of a love letter to the Sherlock fandom. So if it sometimes seemed like I was playing a bit of Sherlock trope bingo throughout this story, well, yeah, perhaps I was. :) Thanks, fandom, for being so awesome and inspirational! <3
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has left kind comments along the way. It's lovely to hear from you guys, and I'm so glad that this story has found an audience.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading (and for leaving kudos or comments, if you're so inspired)! If you enjoyed this, there's also a [sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1077271). And here are some [other works you might like](http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/fic#toc).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] May Your Heart Purr Like A Bumblebee by destinationtoast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/974872) by [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy)




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